


Nightmares

by GingerBreton



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: One shot - Alistair is haunted by nightmares of what he lost at Ostagar.





	Nightmares

Alistair had thought he was past the worst of the dreams. They had eased over the initial six months following his joining, but since Ostagar they were beginning to creep back into his nightly regime. They weren’t all driven by the archdemon anymore either; Duncan had now begun to feature prominently. 

Some nights he just caught flashes of him in the background of his normal dreams, as though he were trying to shout from a great distance but Alistair could never hear what he said. Those were the good nights. On the worst nights Duncan lay bleeding in his arms, begging Alistair to save him, reprimanding him for not being there – You could have stopped this. You should have done better. Why did I pick you over the others? How could I have trusted you with our lives? – on those nights it was all Alistair could do to stop himself from weeping when he woke.

This was one of those nights. Duncan’s chastisement feeling like a fist clamping down on his heart. Even Cailan had cameoed. His dead glassy eyes staring at Alistair from a body that lay crumpled on the floor; leaving him feeling sick to his stomach. 

He woke drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to him, fighting down the tears that were desperate to well from his exhausted eyes. By now he was an expert at hiding the signs of his disturbed nights. He was always the last to bed of a night, he made sure to sleep as far away from whoever was on watch as possible, and the dreams had made him an impossibly early-riser. So far as he was aware not one of his companions were aware of his disturbed nights; just that he was looking increasingly tired, but they were in the middle of a Blight after all, and that could be put down to stress. 

Tonight, he wasn’t so lucky. It was still late, the moon having barely begun its descent into the dawn light, but a concerned face was watching him from across the fire. Whether he had made enough noise to disturb Ysabelle, or whether her own nightmares had roused her, he didn’t know. He knew she struggled with the dreams, they all did. On many a night the whole camp had been woken by her screams. On occasion they had been so bad that Morrigan had needed to use a sleep spell on her to ensure she got some actual rest. 

There was his fellow dreamer, sat in her nightshirt, warming her hands by the fire. She sat in silence watching him. After months of travelling together, she knew him far too well. Knew his need to fill a silence. It was, after all, how she had found out so many personal things about him. She understood his need to shield himself with humour, and would follow suit, teasing him, laughing with him, until he was so comfortable that secrets he’d never told anyone else just tumbled out of him. She waited. 

“It was just a dream,” he mumbled, unable to stop himself. “It was nothing, honestly.”

Still silent, she moved around the fire and settled next to him. She waited.

“It was Duncan,” his voice catching in his throat.

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Oh, pet. I’m sorry.”

He smiled. Sometimes he forgot she’d spent so much of her youth along the northern coast of Ferelden; that was until the occasional regional colloquialism slipped out. They had laughed so many times as she tried to explain some of the more obscure ones to him. 

“Are you getting any sleep? You look exhausted. No offense.” She added, flashing a small smile and a wink in his direction. 

“I’ll be fine,” he’d tried to protest. 

“Nuh uh.” His answer was somehow unacceptable. She shifted so that her legs were curled out to her side, rather than tucked under her, and patted her knee. “Come here.”

“What?” panicked butterflies crashing around his stomach.

“Oh, for goodness sake. Just put your head down!” fixing him with an impatient frown. 

Alistair settled himself down next, his cheek resting on her lap, as she began softly running her fingers through his hair. The repetitive motion soothed him surprisingly quickly, and before long he could feel his eyelids dropping. 

The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Ysabelle whispering, “Please don’t feel like you have to hide things. We are in this together, you know.”


End file.
